


Lavellan Destroyed

by lennydotdotdot



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age - Various Authors, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxiety Disorder, Child Inquisitor, Chronic Illness, Chronic Pain, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Illness, Other, Panic Attacks, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Teen Inquisitor, Teenage Inquisitor, Trespasser Spoilers, Trespasser compliant, iron bull is the irresponsible uncle, sera is a terrible sister, solas is a terrible dad, teenquisitor, terminal illness, young inquisitor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-06-15
Updated: 2018-02-10
Packaged: 2018-11-14 15:12:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11210685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lennydotdotdot/pseuds/lennydotdotdot
Summary: He felt like the world was crumbling underneath him, like he was losing control, doing everything wrong. Falon didn't ask for this, but it's not like he can bow out now. There's nowhere left to go but forward.Some out of order works examining the psyche of a 16-year-old Lavellan in the aftermath of his clan's destruction.





	1. Lavellan Destroyed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falon receives word of his clan's destruction.

When Falon saw the note he clenched his fists so tightly around the vellum he had to drop it for fear he might tear it. Clan Lavellan, destroyed. The bodies numbered the entirety of the clan. He looked up to Josephine, nothing more than a gold and blue smear in his vision, and he realized there were tears in his eyes. He blinked quickly, trying to stop himself from crying, but the second he opened his mouth to let out the breath he didn’t know he’d been holding a scream tore out of him.

Josephine’s blurry figure recoiled, and someone, whether Cullen or Leliana Falon didn’t know, placed a hand on his shoulder. He swatted it off immediately and stormed out of the room, slamming the door behind him. When he made it out into the hall there were dozens of sets of eyes on him, Varric, Solas peeking out from the rotunda, Vivienne from up in her loft. He was sure the others would hear of this, that he'd be scolded later for having an outburst where Skyhold's guests could see and hear. He didn’t care. He hurried to his quarters and to his bed, stripped off his coat and armor and lay in his underclothes on top of the sheets, covering his head in his hands and sobbing into the mattress.

For a while he was left alone.

And then there was a knock at the door, a servant bringing him some water and a little cheese and bread from the kitchens. As if he could eat now. He numbly accepted the tray and set it on his desk, where he ignored it for a time, too busy sitting on his bed, agonizing over the decisions that had led to this point.

If he’d just called the clan to Skyhold. If he’d just taken them in…

“But they didn’t want to come to Skyhold,” Cole said.

Falon threw his pillow at Cole and just as quickly as he appeared, Cole vanished. Probably scurried on back to the tavern.

When he was ready to go outside again, it was evening. He hadn’t eaten the bread or cheese, though he’d had a few sips of water. He wanted to apologize to Josephine for screaming, as if he was actually sorry when it was her counsel that proved fatal for his clan. He looked himself over in the mirror. Hair was a mess, so he slicked it back with a little oil. His eyes were still a little puffy from crying, but his dark skin and black vallaslin hid any redness in his cheeks and nose.

He splashed a little water over his face and dried himself with the napkin meant for his food, and that reduced the swelling under his eyes.

And then, as if nothing was wrong, he went back to work.


	2. Venatori

When Lavellan went missing, at first the camp didn't panic. It wasn't unusual for Falon to wander off into the wilderness, claiming he was looking for a place to pee before taking an hour to skip stones or wander the woods alone, usually until someone found him and dragged him back by the scruff of his neck. This must have happened when Falon wandered off, Solas thought. Again, never listening, always running off on his own and putting himself in harm's way. Solas sighed as Sera indicated a pile of Lavellan's clothes by the river while Iron Bull indicated a splotch of blood and some overturned stones. Signs of a struggle.

Of course, Solas did not expect that Falon would willingly traipse out into the wilderness in his smalls, so the prospect that Falon had been taken by force seemed obvious. Falon might have been reckless, but he was not quite stupid.

Solas looked between the two. “I know a spell, but it will take some time to prepare. The two of you should prepare. There may be danger ahead.”

Sera rolled her eyes and exaggeratedly returned to searching. Bull simply grunted and started gathering their weapons.

Solas was relieved to see Sera and Bull gone. For better or worse, Falon was Solas's responsibility and he would resolve this matter as quickly and quietly as possible, and neither Sera nor Bull were discrete. Moreover, they did not need to see what he was about to do to the fools who took the young Inquisitor. Solas took Falon's discarded shirt, closed his eyes, and transformed.

-

Falon was bruised, beaten, sore in the back of the carriage. He’d been throttled when the Venatori captured him, throttled again when he broke one of their noses as they tried to bind his legs. Just recently he had been throttled again by the carriage itself. He was lucky to find a loose floorboard he could hook the ropes under, and he used it to unthread the rope, working vigorously no matter how the carriage tossed him around. He had to escape. He had to.

He loosened the knots on his wrists first and though his muscles ached from the earlier struggle, and from weeks of travel and fighting, he didn’t waste a moment in getting to work on the bindings on his feet. Those were easier. He brought his legs close to his mouth and bit the knot, tugged at it until it came loose, and then loosened the binds around his feet just enough so they looked tied tight.

Then he coughed. Loudly. As though he’d not had a drink in a week.  Over and over. It made his bruised ribs ache but he kept at it.

Eventually the carriage stopped and he heard the guards shuffling around, pulling things from the compartment underneath. He heard a crackling fire. He started coughing even louder and in the most pathetic voice he could muster he whined, “Please. Water.”

The guards stopped chatting with each other. Eventually one opened the door, offered him a skin. Falon lurched forward to drink - dignity be damned. If he had to run naked through the woods it might be the last he’d have for a while. The guard withdrew the skin before Falon even had a drop, and laughed.

It was not anger that moved Falon, although it did make it easier to do what came next. He whipped the rope that once bound his wrists and grabbed it. Then he threw it over the guard and crossed his arms over his body, tightened the noose, and brandished his captive for all the rest of the Venatori to see.

“Drop your weapons,” Falon said, “Or he dies.”

The Venatori exchanged looks. Falon felt very small, suddenly, but he pulled the ropes tighter, his ears flicking downward as the man choked.

“Kill him, then,” one of the Venatori said, cocking his head. “We’ll just make sure to tie you up tighter next time.”

Falon felt his stomach drop.

“Course if he does die I’m sure Corypheus won’t mind us having a little fun with you. Maybe burn some new marks into you, knife ear.” The Venatori laughed in unison. Falon felt sick but didn’t release his captive. “Maybe cut you up. He only said he wanted you alive. Didn’t say anything about damaged or not.”

“You’d really let your friend die?” Falon snapped. “That’s—“

“It’s his fault for getting stupid,” the leader said, standing up and waggling his staff at Falon the way one scolds a child. “He left the door open. He turned his back on you. If you’d pulled a knife out of your ass, he’d be dead anyway. But I think you’re a good boy. You’re going to release him. And you’re going to be nice and quiet when we tie you up this time, and we won’t have to hurt you.”

Falon slowly started to loosen the rope around the Venatori’s throat. He gasped, clawed at the ropes, and Falon pulled them taut again so he couldn’t break loose and attack him. Like trying to rescue an injured wolf. You pull the arrow out, and the wolf bites you. You leave the arrow in, it dies.

Letting go wasn’t an option. Falon started to sidestep, dragging the choking Venatori along with him, through the dirt, never taking his eyes off the Venatori. It struck him that he couldn't remember how many there were when he was attacked the first time - he remembered four. The one he'd kicked in the face still had blood staining his lips and his nose was black and swollen - he sat to the left of the leader.

“How far do you think you’ll get, boy? Be smart.”

Falon tried to remind himself that his allies would probably come looking for him. Buying time increased his chances of survival. Dragging this out was in his interests – killing the man or releasing him was not. He eyed the man’s belt. There was a knife, no longer than the palm of his hand, and he did not even know if it was a knife suitable for fighting or if it was even sharp enough to peel an apple. He didn’t dare take his hands off the rope. Maybe he could cut himself, leave a little blood for his friends to follow.

“Enough of this,” the Venatori finally said. He nodded, and suddenly Falon felt a solid blow against his kidney. He doubled over his hostage and felt a hand knot in his hair. He had to get up, had to fight back.

“Get him tied up.”

That couldn’t happen. It couldn’t. He snatched the knife out of the Venatori’s belt and slashed at his captor’s eyes. The man flinched, loosened his grip and Falon scurried away. Every step sent a ripple of pain up his spine to his ribs. He wouldn’t get far, he just had to make a scene, make some noise, leave some blood for his companions to follow.  

He made it ten agonizing steps before the ground under him froze solid and he crashed to the ground.

He couldn’t get up fast enough. The Venatori who’d snuck up behind him planted a foot on his back and immediately wrenched his arms behind his body, spun the rope back around his wrists. Falon swore.

“Shit. Fenedhis. Fucking shemlin.”

“Watch your mouth, knife ear. We've got a long way to go” the Venatori whispered into his ear. Falon tried to bash his head into him but with the man's full weight on him, he couldn't.

-

He heard the struggle outside of the carriage. He was tied to the bars on the window this time, and no matter how he tried he couldn’t get comfortable, couldn’t get free. All he’d managed to do was scuff up his wrists something awful. Outside he heard growls, screams, and the crunching of bone.  Worst case scenario it was none of his allies and a dragon had just conveniently swooped in and killed all the Venatori, but that seemed unlikely. It was probably Bull, he thought. Bull took a particular joy in killing Vints and Venatori in particular. He'd probably torn them all up with his battleaxe.

Bull did not open the door.

Solas did.

Falon craned his neck. “Where are the others?”

“You were in immediate danger and I did not wish to lose time by waiting for them,” Solas answered. He climbed into the carriage and cut Falon loose. He didn’t catch Falon when he fell, didn’t even look at him or ask if he was alright. He shrugged off his backpack and set it on the end of the carriage and said, “I brought your clothes. Get dressed. Then we will go.”

“You did this by yourself?” Falon asked.

Solas did not answer. When Falon finally stepped outside he saw bloody bodies, burnt bodies. One of the bodies looked as though it had been mauled by a wolf, but the bite marks were too large and Falon had never seen wolves in this part of Orlais before. There were no dead animals around, only Solas, so it had to be magic. But it didn’t look like the results of any spell Falon had seen before. He felt his stomach flutter, bile rise in his throat. He'd never liked seeing dead bodies, but he could smell them burning.

“You did all this?”

“Yes.”

Falon shifted uneasily. “I…thank you. For rescuing me.”

“Let us not speak of it until you are safely back at camp.”

“It’s just—“ he stammered, “I’ve never seen your spells do… _that_ before.”

Solas did not respond to him and for a moment Falon was so terrified he thought he might have been safer with the Venatori. And then, softly, Solas sighed and said, “Da’len, you are safe now.”

Falon bristled at being called a child. He had his Vallaslin. He was old enough to demand an answer, not just be told to be grateful. “Was that blood magic?”

“Certainly not.”

“Then what was it?”

Solas shrugged. “It would not matter to your Inquisition. I cannot safely emulate such spells in the presence of allies.”

Falon stopped walking, looking Solas up and down. When the man turned around Falon glanced away and continued walking. Solas wasn’t going to tell him – he didn’t even like him. Especially not since Falon hit him. He glanced away, he wondered if Solas knew he had tried to escape, if he knew how badly he’d failed and that those Venatori had threatened to torture him for the attempt. He wondered if Solas had any idea how scared he had been.

“I’m sorry,” Falon muttered.

Solas didn’t respond.

Falon felt defensive for a moment, wanted to get at least some kind of confirmation that Solas at least heard him. He tried again, a little more forcefully this time. “I’m sorry.”

Solas didn’t even look at him, and Falon petered out, slowly walking behind Solas until they could see the camp. Luckily they weren’t too far in the first place, it was only about an hour of walking in silence. Iron Bull and Sera met them about a mile out from the now destroyed Venatori cart, armed to the teeth in preparation for a fight that had already ended. Sera grabbed Lavellan by the collar and pulled him in to hug him – “Don’t you _ever_ do that again, shitbrains!”

The hug _hurt_ , but Falon was too tired to argue.

-

Solas checked Falon over for injuries once they were back in camp. Falon sat with his shirt off, revealing burns and scuffs and cuts, all clotted and healing normally for the most part. There was one big scar across his side from when he’d escaped Corypheus at Haven – he’d taken a fall and sharp stone cut through his coat and dented his armor and to show for it he had a long, ragged scar that ran the length of his back. At first Solas seemed to mistake it for an injury - he touched it directly and immediately withdrew his hand when he remembered where it had come from. Solas murmured something Falon didn’t understand as he set to work healing him. When they were finished, Solas casually noted that Falon had cracked three ribs.

Lovely.

“I assume you attempted to fight them off and they retaliated?”

Falon nodded bitterly. “I gave as good as I got. Kicked the big one in the nose when he grabbed me. Made a real nasty crunch. Like snapping a branch.”

Solas barely responded, hummed to affirm he was still listening as he put his coat back on. Falon was getting tired of being ignored, tired of being treated like a child. He tried. He said thank you. He said sorry, and he meant it. It didn’t matter. Falon sighed and threw his clothes back on as well. Back to work.

Before he made it out of the tent, Solas stopped him. “How did you escape the first time?”

“How did you know I escaped?” Falon asked, cocking his head. “I was in the cart when you found me.”

“I heard the soldiers talking about it when I arrived.” There was a delay before Solas answered the question, but Falon couldn’t figure out if he was lying or just tired from the night before.

“This isn’t the first time this has happened to me,” Falon finally answered. “I found a loose board and used it to loosen the knots, then when they checked on me I used the rope to nab one of the Venatori. I told them to drop their weapons or I’d kill him. And then they told me to go ahead and do it.”

“This isn’t the first time? When was the last?”

“Oh you know. With my clan. Some noble sent their dogs after us, actual dogs mind, and we had to kill them when they started harassing the halla. Then the noble sent their people after us for killing their dogs, and I just happened to be the one they found first. Me and my brother. Athim got stupid and ran, got a bolt through the shoulder and bled out. When they threw me in the back of the cart they didn’t bother taking his gear so I took his knife and I got loose and I killed them.”

“I should not have asked,” Solas said.

“Why not?” Falon asked. His voice cracked, which only made him angrier. “Too Dalish for you?”

Solas looked almost angry, almost sad. Falon wasn’t sure which. Finally, Solas said, “I did not intend to cause you distress. Let us return to our mission.”

Falon could have made a crack about how Solas caused him distress when he refused to answer what it was he did to the Venatori, or when he mocked Falon for asking his opinion of other elves, or when he insisted on pulling Falon aside to tell him how much of a disappointment he was. Falon had punched him for the last one. It had been less than a month after he’d received news of his clan’s destruction. He was still angry. He regretted hitting Solas when he could have just left, when he could have done what he’d gone to do in the first place and leave some research materials for the tranquil in the library. If Solas had just waited, had just left him alone for a week or two, maybe Falon would have had the sense to walk away.

Falon was finally tired of fighting. He sighed. “Back to work, then.”


	3. Reports I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull has a hard time explaining the Inquisitor to his superiors.

Iron Bull’s quill lingered over the page until the ink dried on the tip. He was asked for information regarding the Inquisitor’s person. If he were strictly writing for the Ben Hassrath he would not have hesitated to write what he saw, but he knew Red would be reading it over as well, and there was a chance the kid would see it himself.

Bull declined to answer the heart of the question, this time. Instead he wrote simply that Inquisitor Falon of Clan Lavellan was sixteen years of age, favored a bow or a pair of daggers, was a gifted alchemist, strategist, and marksman.

He knew he would be asked again. He couldn’t stall forever.

\---

Sometimes Bull wondered what the kid would have been like if he wasn’t wrapped up in the middle of all this crap. He could easily imagine the kid stalking the woods, hunting deer and wolves.

Falon was _good_ at shooting things. Sharp eyes. Knew he had to shoot at an angle if the wind was blowing hard. Never took for granted that a thing he’d just shot through the eye or the throat was completely dead, used hand-brewed poisons that left Venatori puking up their guts if they survived the first shot.

After Haven, the kid switched to using daggers in a fight.

Bull never asked him why the change, since he seemed so comfortable with a bow, but he saw how the kid would duck in front of an enemy, practically daring them to cut him in half, only to duck behind them and stab them in the gaps of their armor or trip them with a wire he’d wrapped under their legs. He was getting reckless, aggressive.

It hit Bull a little too close to home. But he was the kid’s bodyguard, not his parent. So he kept his mouth shut.

At first, anyway.

It happened while they were fighting a particularly Red Templar. Most of his allies already lay dead on the ground and Bull was taking care of the last one. Until it pulled back and struck Falon in the side of the head with an arm coated in red lyrium.

Bull roared as he chopped the templar’s arm off, then rammed his shoulder into him. He caught Falon standing up in the corner of his vision. Didn’t stop to ask if he was alright. Bull bashed the templar against a stone wall and rammed his axe into the thing’s throat. He was covered in blood by the time he turned back to Falon.

The kid was bleeding pretty bad, but he didn’t have any lyrium growing out of the wound. If he died, it wouldn’t be the templar’s doing.

Bull, on the other hand, was about ready to drag Falon back to camp by his ear and kill him.

\---

Bull didn’t yell.

Yelling at Falon would just make him yell back and then he wouldn’t be talking, he would be fighting again. He saw the way Falon faced off against the others, not just his enemies but Cullen, Solas, Cassandra, even Sera and Varric once.

He always looked mortified after, covering his mouth, running away, wringing his hands. His ears would flatten against the side of his head. Easy to see since he shaved the sides.

Kid was reacting like every confrontation was life or death. And maybe he was hoping it was.

“Kid, bring your bow next time we go out.”

“I’m doing fine with daggers,” Falon muttered.

“I need the fire support,” Bull said. He didn’t. Sera and Varric could more than cover him. So could Solas, Vivienne, and Dorian. Any of them would do. He needed Falon out of the front lines where it would be harder for him to get in the way.

“And you don’t need someone stabbing the templars in the backs?”

“I do, sometimes. But you’re good with that bow. It’ll be nice to have you covering my blind side. You got sharp eyes, kid. I need you firing from the back, where you can see the whole field.”

Especially because from the back ranks he couldn’t throw himself in front of an incoming blade.

\---

If left alone, Falon would spend every moment not working alone, in his room. If Bull went more than a day without seeing him he sent Krem or Dalish up to the kid’s room to let him know what the chargers were doing. Sera apparently caught on too, because she’d occasionally hop out the tavern window and say, “Is this about small dark and elfy? I got this.”

Eventually Falon made it something of a routine to run by the tavern and sit with either Bull or Sera while he ate. Didn’t talk much, but at least he wasn’t skulking on his own so much.

Well, mostly on his own. Wherever Falon went, Cole was probably lurking nearby. Weird squirrelly demon kid stuck to Falon like a fly on shit.

“It isn’t your fault. There was nothing you could do.”

He kept saying that, over and over, and Falon would get tense and his breath would get shallow. Something happened. Bull filed it away in the back of his mind to ask Red about the kid later and told Cole, “Hey, Cole, keep the demonic therapy session private. I’m sure the kid doesn’t want you airing his life’s story to the whole Inquisition.”

Cole nodded. “Peeling back the bandage before the wound has cloned. Tearing the knot. I am sorry.”

Whatever was going through Falon’s head, at least he wasn’t throwing himself off the balcony.

\---

Red wasn’t hesitant to share the report with Bull. Not in the slightest. She handed over a file she had tucked away, separate from the rest of the reports.

“If he isn’t speaking of this,” she said, “I would not mention it to him. Although I would not be offended if you did. And I suspect he will forgive you.”

Bull was almost tempted to ask what happened, but he knew he wouldn’t get a straight answer and he already had the report in his hand. He skimmed over it. It was short. Half a page. Crisp words promising reparations for the destroyed Dalish clan. An apology for the act. AS if that would fix things.

He snapped the pages shut and handed the dossier back to Red.

“Fuck,” he said. “I don’t…”

“I am unfit to judge him, nor help him. Perhaps you will fare better.”

Bull had no intention of mentioning it to the kid. It wouldn’t be his place to play Tamassaran and comfort him over the loss of his clan. He was a mercenary. A bodyguard. Getting too chummy wasn’t part of his deal and it would definitely piss off the rest of the Ben Hassrath.

He had to at least stay professional.

\---

Travelling with Falon and Solas was a nightmare.

Apparently Falon had punched Solas in the heat of an argument. Pretty much everyone in Skyhold knew about it and pretended they didn’t. But everyone knew. Dorian, Varric, and Vivienne all heard the tail end of the argument, right before Falon swung at Solas and ran out. Kid didn’t even sleep in his quarters that night, or take dinner. He ran out onto the battlements and hid until Cullen tripped over him the next morning.

Solas wasn’t much of a gossip as far as Bull could tell. Mostly kept to himself. But even he couldn’t refrain from the occasional snide remark over breakfast or while pitching tents.

“It appears our dear Inquisitor has left us to perform some sacred rite” he would say whenever Falon left to take a piss. At least until that time Falon actually got kidnapped by Vints. At which point Solas stopped making those jokes and started keeping an eye out in case he didn’t come back this time. Same with everyone, really.

It was actually worse when Falon was around. The kid liked taking etchings of old elvish he found while they were travelling, carried big sheets of vellum folded up and tucked into his notebook and charcoal in case he wanted to retrieve them.

The first time Solas was around to see Falon do it after their argument, he quietly said, “Ah. Excellent find. With the information on that wall you could start an entirely new Dalish clan, and they would already have a wider pool of knowledge to draw from than most.”

Bull watched as Falon’s jaw and shoulders locked up tight, heard the charcoal snap between his fingers.

Sera had been minding her own business and rolling her eyes, maybe planning to deface the ruins with a well-placed doodle in her own brightly colored chalk. (A doodle Falon would probably add to once he was done collecting. It’d wash off, he’d say.)

She looked irritated. Maybe because everything Solas did irritated her. Maybe because she and Falon were friends, at least, that’s the impression Bull got from them terrorizing the Inquisition together.

“Andraste’s tits,” she muttered. “You’re an ass.”

Falon wasn’t done with the etching, there was still blank vellum left, but he had already started folding it.

It only got worse when they encountered the Dalish clan in the Exalted Plains. Falon had easily walked up to the Keeper, bowed his head and greeted him in elvish. He’d quietly pulled the Keeper aside to discuss, from what Bull could gather, was the fate of their two clans. Sera had no desire to listen in and Solas had occupied himself with a book rather than concern himself. At least until Falon returned.

“Friend of yours?”

“My father actually came from this clan,” Falon replied. Almost brightly. Almost like he forgot that Solas and he were always at each other’s throats. “It’s been a couple years, but I’ve meet Keeper Hawen before. Said if I didn’t look just like my dad he’d not have recognized me.”

“Well, it is fortunate that he did,” Solas replied. “I imagine otherwise they would have fired upon us.”

Falon’s ears twitched.

Bull was about ready to grab the kid if need be, pull him away. Maybe convince him to go chat up the rest of the clan while they waited for him – the place was defensible enough. Bull could make do with just Sera and Solas if need be.

Falon didn’t budge. He glared at Solas for a long moment, his fists clenched at his side. If looks could kill Solas would be dead a thousand times over.

But then again, Falon had punched Solas already. This was progress.

“If you’re so uncomfortable around the Dalish, you’re free to return to camp without us,” Falon said.

Sera had been sitting on a rock, pointedly avoiding the Dalish up until that point, but her head snapped up so fast Bull could hear her neck crack.

“Excuse me?” Solas asked.

“Think you crossed a line with that one, Solas,” Bull said. “You got anything to say before you go?”

Seemed like Solas had finally taken the hint, because he picked up his staff and cocked his head at Falon. Like he was trying to gauge if Falon was serious or not. Bull already had an idea of how serious it was. It was one thing to mock Falon, but it was another thing to insult his family. It wasn’t something Bull quite understood on a personal level – if someone insulted his Tamassaran it would be her business to get back at them.

But this was Falon’s family. Falon’s mostly deceased family.

Solas didn’t say a word as he walked off. Once he was mostly, but not entirely out of earshot, Sera said, “Wow. Bein’ a real arsebiscuit today inn’t he?”

Falon didn’t say a word. Just mumbled something about having to pee and wandering off for a few minutes.

\---

There were so many ways Bull wanted to tell Solas that he wasn’t helping. So many. But he stuck with the diplomatic way, pulling him aside at camp after Falon had already holed up in his bedroll. “Hey. Maybe keep all the elfy shit to a minimum.”

“Why?” Solas asked.

Smug little shit. Bull could see it in his eyes, he wasn’t really wondering why.

“Because you’re not helping.”

“Well our dear inquisitor insists he is an adult and wishes to be treated as such. In any case, he is certainly capable of asking me to stop himself. As he did earlier today.”

“You know you keep doing this thing. I don’t know if you’ve realized it. But you keep doing this thing where you say things as if they’re perfectly reasonable and rational. And they’re not. You’re being an asshole.”

Solas smirked. “This is surprisingly genuine for you, Iron Bull.”

“This isn’t about me. It’s about the kid. And it’s about you. You know what you’re doing.”

“And what exactly am I doing, Iron Bull?”

“Every time he says something about his clan you run your mouth about the Dalish. Did he tell you what happened?”

Solas’s smirk faded. “What happened?”

“Red showed me the report. Clan Lavellan was destroyed months ago.”

“I didn’t…”

It was probably the first time Iron Bull had actually been able to shut Solas up and he wasn’t the least bit satisfied. The kid wouldn’t like it if Solas mentioned his clan. It’d be better if Bull told him first, let him know Red had shared the information with him. Falon probably wouldn’t like it either way.

“He doesn’t know that I know,” Bull said. “So just tone it down.”

“Iron Bull, if I suddenly stopped speaking to him on these subjects, would he not then become suspicious?”

“I don’t know, maybe,” Bull said. “Tell him you saw it in the Fade or whatever.”

\---

The very first night back at Skyhold, Falon changed out of his armor and poked his head into the tavern, asked Iron Bull to meet him on the training grounds. At first Bull thought he wanted to try something. He kept insisting he knew ways to take down larger opponents only to realize that the techniques he had learned were meant for someone with a fifty pound weight difference, not a two hundred pound difference.

But that wasn’t it. He wasn’t armed, wasn’t stripping out of his coat like he usually did when he wanted to spar. Wasn’t picking up a big stick and asking Bull if he had time for the super-secret-Qunari-training-technique (if it were a secret, Bull had said, he wouldn’t have done it in the middle of the training rink).

Falon was propped against one of the training dummies with his arms crossed. Wearing a tunic and a leather coat to keep warm.

“What’s up, boss?”

“I heard what you said to Solas.”

Sneaky little fucker could get the drop on a bird without even thinking about it. He should have figured he’d be eavesdropping.

Bull nodded. “Alright. You wanna hit me?”

“No.” He looked away. He was holding his biceps tight, not in anger, Bull thought. Anxiety. “I didn’t know how to tell him. He doesn’t think much of me…I thought if I told him he wouldn’t…he wouldn’t…”

Oh shit. He was crying. His lips curled back like an orange skin drying in the sun, tucked his head into the crook of his arm as if he could hide it. And Bull felt suddenly sick looking at him.

He’d been stalling in his reports, refusing to divulge more than the barest information on the Inquisitor. This kid wouldn’t last five minutes in Par Vollen. He was too fragile. Too old to be treated like a child. Too old to be reliably converted. Maybe in another life, maybe somewhere he didn't have to constantly fight for his life, and for everyone else's ungrateful ass, maybe it'd be another story. Bull couldn’t put that in his report. Couldn’t put any of this in his report.

He’d received more than one letter already asking who the Inquisitor was, what type of a person they were. Bull could send report after report minimizing Falon to his skill with a bow and Bull could never say a damn word about what he really thought.

“Who gives a damn what anyone thinks?” Bull said. “You’re a good kid. And you’re a damn good marksman. You need a place to go when this is over, the Chargers will _make_ room for you.”

When the kid lunged at Bull, Bull had to suppress a reflex to shove him back. Too many times in Seheron someone had come at him that way only to try and slip a knife in his back. But all the kid did was wrap his arms as far around Bull as they could reach and press his forehead against Bull’s chest. Bull relaxed.

Sometimes Bull wished the kid had been raised somewhere else. In Par Vollen, he wouldn’t have known his family or his clan but he wouldn’t have had all of this shit thrust at him either. He’d still be studying to be an alchemist, or training for the military. It would be so much easier.

But he might not be the same person.

And Bull couldn’t decide which was worse.


	4. Secret I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Cassandra checks in on Falon.

The problem with Falon, Cassandra decided, was that she saw far too much of herself in him. They had little in common, and she often did not know how to talk to him. Questions about his clan, at first, seemed to brighten him up until he remembered that they were far away and he would not likely see them again. When she heard of his clan’s death from Josephine her first instinct was to go to him, try to comfort him, but Leliana stopped her.

“If he has not told you yet, I imagine he does not want you to know.”

Cassandra, unfortunately, knew that feeling as well. She had not yet spoken of her brother with Falon, though he had asked from time to time. From her understanding Falon had also lost a brother years ago, and he had not wished to discuss that either.

She was torn.

She should respect his wishes, she should not pry if it might pain him. But he had all but begged her to take charge of the Inquisition, not to make him lead, not to make him the face of the organization, and she had promised that his advisors would guide him and he would not fail. He was, after all, already the face of the Inquisition.

She needed to see to him, to make certain he was alright.

She caught him on the training grounds as he readied the flasks he had prepared. Two tiered containers that would react when shattered and produce an elemental effect – almost like magic. Aside from him and his trainer and Sera, the grounds were clear.

Before he could take position to spar, Cassandra interrupted. “Inquisitor. May I speak with you?”

He glanced at his trainer, who simply shrugged and began drinking from one of the flasks on his belt. That was…a little disgusting. Cassandra led Falon into the armory to avoid wandering eyes and said, “I just wanted to see how you were.”

Falon cocked his head. “You took me out of training to ask how I am?”

“No. Well…yes. Falon, you are…I heard…”

His ears slowly lowered. “I’m doing fine, Cassandra. May I get back to work?”

Cassandra did not press the matter, and before she could protest Falon had scurried back onto the training grounds.

\---

It was not a week after Cassandra heard a new rumor on the lips of a pair of servants – Falon struck Solas during an argument. Cassandra hurried to the Rotunda hoping to catch them, but found only Solas still massaging his jaw.

Cassandra grunted. “Where did he go?”

“Do you mean the Inquisitor?” Solas asked. “How should I know?”

“You were the last person he talked to, I assume.”

“He ran out after he punched me,” Solas said. "I was not inclined to follow."

“What did you say to him?” Cassandra asked.

“The truth, Seeker.”

 _Cassandra_ was going to punch Solas if he insisted on being vague.

He quickly corrected himself, “I told him that I disapproved of his actions and that he proved my previous assumptions of his people correct.”

Ah. So he insulted Falon’s family. His now dead family.

Wonderful.

“I will talk to him,” Cassandra said.

\---

Falon had locked himself in his quarters immediately after punching Solas, but when Cassandra yelled at him to open the damned door he eventually complied, cracking it open and murmuring, “Cassandra, can this wait?”

“No. May I come in?”

Falon opened the door and paced back up to his room. Cassandra followed him to his room where he pulled out a chair from his desk and then proceeded to sit on the foot of the bed. He had, apparently, been taking his frustrations out on his bedding. Feathers were scattered all over the floor and the ceiling and when she looked closely she saw one sticking out of his shirt.

“Is this about Solas?” he asked.

“Yes. You punched him.”

“I shouldn’t have,” Falon muttered. “I know I shouldn’t have but I wasn’t thinking I just—“

“You were angry,” Cassandra finished. “Josephine told me what happened to your clan. And Solas told me what he said. I am sure if I told him he would—“

“No,” Falon’s voice cracked out like a whip.

A heavy silence hung in the air between them.

“I can’t lead this Inquisition,” Falon said. “I’m sorry but this was a mistake. You need to take over. I—“

“You are doing well.”

“I’m doing _well_?” he scoffed. He was blue in the face, had probably been crying. He was very _expressive_ , Cassandra had noticed. It may have been his upbringing – perhaps the Dalish preferred openness due to their living conditions or—“I just punched the only person who can help me when my mark flares up. I got my own family killed because I trusted Josephine’s diplomacy. All of them. How long until I risk another village – a nation? I can’t do this.”

“You must,” Cassandra said.

“You’re the one who started the Inquisition,” he countered. “What if I fail? What if I’m killed? What then, Cassandra? Are you going to leave the Inquisition to the others?”

Cassandra stood.

For a moment Falon recoiled as if he thought she might strike him – she had been rough with him when they first met and corrected herself only when she realized he was not guilty of what transpired at the conclave. She did not blame him, but neither did she stop. She reached out and hoisted him up by his arm and pulled him in.

She embraced him tightly, like a sister holding a brother. And he folded into her, pressed his forehead against her collar and sobbed. He was shaking, and for a moment Cassandra was without words.

“Please. Don’t make me do this,” he whispered.

“We stand behind you every step of the way,” Cassandra promised. “Wherever you lead us. We will not let you fail.”

“And what good has that done?” he asked. “I’m ruining everything.”

He straightened out and she released him at last, watched as he paced and eventually took a seat on the side of the bed. His ears had turned downwards, as they often did when he was confused or worried.

“You are far harsher to yourself than any of our enemies have been,” Cassandra said. “Our troops follow you because they believe in you. Because you give them a cause to proudly stand for.”

“They follow me because they still think I’m chosen by a god I don’t even believe in,” Falon retorted. “And nothing I say or do seems to change that.”

“They believe it because you give them cause to believe it.”

“Ah yes. Screaming ‘I’m not the Herald’ on the battlements is cause to believe in the Herald of Andraste,  I suppose.” He shook his head, wiped his eyes on his sleeve. “I’ll tell Solas I’m sorry for hitting him. Please don’t tell him about my clan.”

“May I ask why?”

“It’s stupid,” he said. Cassandra turned, not expecting an answer, but she turned back to him when he answered, “I don’t want people pretending to mourn with me.”

“Understood,” Cassandra said. She could not imagine what it was like for Falon – to be pulled so far from his home only for it to burn in his absence. He had told her, once that he would leave in an instant if he had the choice, that he would give anything to return to his clan and live a normal life. He once told her, in frustration, that he hated humans, and she still did not understand why. He would not elaborate, would not tell her of his past encounters with them, merely apologized for insulting her and asked her not to speak of it again.

She stopped before descending the stairs and glanced back at him. He had dropped his head to his hands, folded over. He looked so small. “Are you alright?”

“No,” he said. “Just…please…reconsider this whole…thing about me leading. You’d do a better job of it than me.”

Cassandra knew that was no longer possible. Not with all he had accomplished so far - closing the Breach, rescuing the people of Haven from Corypheus's assault. No one else could rally the troops like Falon – even if he did not think so. People followed him because they truly believed in him. As did she, for he did whatever needed to be done, no matter how he complained or dragged his feet. He was stronger than he gave himself credit for.

“For what it is worth, I am proud of you.”

And she left him alone.


	5. A Thought

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Solas has mixed feelings about Falon.

A thought

“Well I’m sorry whatever clan you met told you to get lost,” Falon said, “But not every clan’s willing to risk taking extra apostates and fugitives in. Take in the wrong person and suddenly the shems who didn’t pay you any mind before are sending dogs and templars and building dams to force you upstream, or burning the woods to smoke you out.”

Solas did not know what to say to that. Falon was not wrong, that was a concern, although he couldn’t possibly know what Solas’s previous interactions with the Dalish had been, and Solas would not tell him.

“We protect our own,” Falon said. “No one else will.”

“We agree on that much.”

 

Another thought

“But what purpose does living in the woods and following halla accomplish?”

“What do you mean?”

“Exactly as I say. What is the goal of the Dalish?”

“Survival,” Falon said. “Is it that hard to understand?”

“Are the elves in alienages not surviving?”

“I don’t know,” Falon said. “Isn’t it illegal for them to carry weapons?”

“The Hero of Ferelden came from an Alienage, did she not?”

Falon cocked his head. “She was a Grey Warden, wasn’t she? Don’t Wardens train their recruits?”

“First she was arrested for slaying an arl’s son, along with every guard in the palace.”

“Why did she do that?”

Solas minced no words. “It was the eve of her wedding, an arranged marriage she had long dreaded. Her father warned her not to speak of her martial training, and she agreed, reluctantly. She and the other women were kidnapped and brought to the Arl’s estate. She escaped and left a river of blood trying to reach her friend. After she stood covered in human’s blood her cousin asked if she killed them. She said, 'Like dogs.'”

“This another Fade dream?” Falon asked.

“Yes.”

“And it’s true?”

“Ask Sera,” Solas said. “She seems to have met Warden Tabris.”

"She doesn't like to talk about the alienage," Falon said. "If I ever go to Denerim, I'll ask around then."

 

Another thought

Falon only believed what he could hold in his hands and inspect for himself. He was a rare breed of skeptic – and an uncommonly irritating one at that. There was no way for Solas to explain to him what his powers were without revealing an uncomfortable amount of his own abilities and as it stood Falon neither needed to know nor would believe him.

Solas was rather surprised when, after he had diminished the Dalish for their belief in the Evanuris (he did not call them such), Falon said, “Why should I care if the Dalish are wrong?”

“You have marked your face for one of the elven gods,” Solas replied.

“I know,” Falon said. “But that doesn’t mean I have to believe we’re right. My keeper chose Mythal for me because She is the Great Protector. But if she isn’t real, or if she wasn’t really like our stories, why would that matter? My people know who I am just by looking at me, and they know I am no child.”

Solas cocked his head. “What would you have done, if you had not left your clan?”

“Learned the stories,” he said. “Help our healers. Keeper Deshanna…wasn’t quite sure what to do with me. She called me a First without magic when she applied my Vallaslin.”

“But you do not believe in the elven gods?”

“I believe in my people,” Falon said.

“But not the e—“ he almost said Evanuris. He corrected himself. “Not the elven gods?”

“The stories have to come from somewhere, I suppose,” Falon said. He took a long sip of his tea – really just a piece of ginger root he had sliced off and steeped in water as they travelled during the day – he claimed it made the water safer to drink. A trick he’d learned in his clan. He said garlic worked as well, but he preferred the taste of ginger, as would most anyone. “But I practice for myself.”

“I see.”

“Are you going to make fun of me?”

“No.”

 

Another thought

Sera poked Solas in the back of the head. He did not dignify the action with a response.

“Hey Elfy?”

“What is it now?”

“Falon shouted something at that big demon in the Fade. You know what it means?”

“That depends. What did he say?”

“An na tel harel,” Sera said.

Solas smirked.

“Whatsit mean?”

“I was under the impression you did not care to learn of our language.”

“Ugh. I don’t. I just want to know what he said and he's being all doom and gloom again.”

“In what context?” Solas asked. “The language of our people is highly malleable—“

“Well we found this grave with all our names on it and under it a few words, right? But Falon’s was chipped off. Said Lose his clan.”

Solas’s ears tipped downwards as she said it. He knew the loss of his clan had hit Falon hard. He saw the way Falon acted after – he remembered him screaming in the war room and rushing to his quarters, had noticed Bull and Sera and the mercenaries pulling him from his room, Cassandra warning Solas to stop whenever he spoke of the Dalish, Varric practically dragging him to games of Wicked Grace, Dorian spoiling him with gifts whenever he had coin to spare, Vivienne frantically searching for tomes on the Dalish and ancient elven lore – books entirely in elven along with their translations. It seemed he and Sera were the last to know. Curious, considering Sera was his friend.

“Anyway the big bugger went, ‘Mwuahahahaha, you’re a husk!’ and Falon shouted that a bunch of times. Was he swearing?”

“Nothing so base,” Solas replied. “It means, ‘There is no fear here.’”

Sera didn’t laugh. Didn’t thank him. Her smile faded, her brow furrowed. She was _concerned._

“There is a Dalish war song that uses the phrase,” Solas recalled. “Perhaps that is where he learned it.”

“Shit’s not right,” she muttered.

He saw them on the roof later that day, eating sandwiches. Sera shot him a glare when he approached, and he quickly turned on his heel and went the other way.

 

An afterthought

“Do you still practice for yourself?” Solas asked.

“I practice for my clan,” Falon murmured.

“Even though—“

“ _Because_ they’re gone,” Falon said. “And when I find the man who murdered them I’m going to—I’m going to—“

He had tears in his eyes as he lost the thought. Solas reached out to Falon but he pushed him away.

It was better this way, Solas thought. It would make what came next easier.

 

A thought

“Do you fault Josephine?”

“For what?”

“Had you not tasked her with protecting your clan?”

“No. I don't blame her.”

“Truly?”

“I am the one who let her handle it.”

 

A thought

When Falon sang, he kept his voice hushed, cupped his hands around his face to muffle the song. Whispered the tune in front of the camp fire on nights when things got too quiet. Solas could hear the echoes of his song in the Fade – a quiet, low voice. Gentle. Soothing, almost, even if the song was anything but.

It was a song that invoked Fen’Harel’s misfortunes on the enemies, a song Solas would never repeat and had been greatly disgusted by the first time he’d heard it. If only they knew who they were praying to. What they were asking.

But when he asked Falon, “That song you were singing last night. Is it not a battle hymn?”

“It is,” Falon said.

“Do you not wonder if perhaps some spirit that represents the Dread Wolf might respond to your song?”

Falon snickered. “That’s an odd distinction. Do you know something I don’t know?”

Solas often forgot how clever Falon was. He needed to be careful around him.

“If he’s real, spirit or demon or god or not, may he catch Corypheus’s scent. But not the Duke of Wycome. That bastard is mine.”

 

A thought

Falon still took charcoal prints when he found interesting carvings in ruins.

He liked things he could hold in his hands, see with his own eyes.

But he did not take any prints in Mythal’s temple, though he completed the rituals.

When Abelas rejected him, Falon’s fists clenched tightly at his side, and then relaxed. His shoulders, first square and proud, slacked. He laughed lightly, said, “Thank you.”

Abelas did not reply.

“For your honesty.”

When Falon drank of the Well of Sorrows, Solas caught Abelas shaking his head.

 

A thought

“What will you do with the power of the Well once Corypheus is defeated?”

“Ask me again once he’s dead,” Falon said.

“Even inaction is a decision, Falon. If you do not answer, someone will answer in your stead.”

“Let them, then. I don’t really care what happens to me anymore,” Falon said.

He turned to leave.

Solas reached out to grab his shoulder and Falon was slack under his grip.

“I do not think you mean that,” Solas said.

Falon stood there, for a while. He didn’t confirm or deny. He didn't tense, didn't coil his fingers into a fist or snarl like he might have months ago.

Solas felt sick.

“Falon, could this perhaps be the effects of the Well—“

“No,” Falon said. “I wouldn’t drink if I thought anything else.”

Solas’s hand fell from Falon’s shoulder, and Falon did not look back at him as he left.

 

An afterthought

Solas held the orb, shattered, in his hand. Because of Falon. Because of some Dalish boy not seventeen years old who did not know what power he wielded, who was rash and impulsive and too clever for his own good.

“The orb…”

“Corypheus is defeated,” Falon said. “That’s the important thing.”

“Yet so much has been lost,” Solas said.

Falon was quiet for a moment. “I’m sorry—“

“Inquisitor!”

When Falon turned, Solas took his leave. He left the fragments of the orb on the ground and left with nothing but the clothes on his back and the Ironbark staff Falon had gifted him just a week before this battle.

 

An afterthought

Solas wondered if things could have been different.

If Falon were older.

If his clan had survived.

If it were not for the Veil.

Solas created this world in which a sixteen-year-old Dalish boy would be tasked with spying on the chantry only to be imprisoned (he had looked so small when Solas healed him), a world in which a Dalish boy would be worshiped as the Herald of a human woman he did not believe in while his clan were hunted and killed. Solas created this world where elves were hunted and impoverished, where a boy like Falon who should by all accounts have been gifted with magic had no connection to the Fade. He could have been someone.

There was nothing to be done for Falon. The only thing Solas could do was keep Falon in mind as he finished what he started. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solas: Falon was a bright young man. I'll mourn his loss.  
> Falon: Solas! Stop talking about me like I'm dead!  
> Solas: Sometimes I can still hear his voice.


	6. Elfy Elves I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sera and Falon get along like a house on fire. Or stuck full of arrows. Most of the time.

Falon was like, a kid. Like a little baby. Sera cackled when she saw him – “You’re the Herald of Andraste? You’re an elfy brat!”

He’d squared up like a big tough guy and said, “I’m not a kid!” and his voice had cracked and Sera had laughed even harder, clutching her sides and nearly forgetting the reinforcements were waddling over pantsless as they spoke.

“Oh oh oh right! Cover! Get round it!”

“For?”

“For the reinforcements!” Maker he was slow on the uptake. Friggin’ nature tourist dalish kid. Luckily he wasn’t slow in a fight – kid had brought a bow along and he was a damned good shot. Almost as good as Sera.

He’d taken her into the Inquisition – at least he knew good people when he saw them – and they didn’t have much time to talk until they’d both returned to Haven. At which point one of the first things he did is say, “I’m just glad I’m not the only elf here.”

Ugh. She felt her ears dipping low. Stop it ears. “Oh, honey no.”

“What?”

“I don’t really do elves. It’s all rah rah lost glory, we lost so much. Well who’s we? I’m just people.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Falon said, “I just mean…nevermind.”

Maybe she felt _a little bad_ when he skulked off like a kicked puppy (who kicks a puppy?!) but he’d get over it. He’d better get over it, cause Solas sure wasn’t going to. Now he was the type to talk to if the kid wanted to get all boo-hoo they took us up the Dales.

Elfy elves. No fun.

It was only a couple days later when Falon poked his head into the tavern, looking for her, his bow slung over his shoulder.

“We headin’ out?” she said.

“I just wanted to know how good you are with that bow,” he said. “Bet you can’t nail the training dummy in the camps from the roof of the Chantry.”

“Like shite I can’t,” she snapped, whipping her bow and quiver out from under the table where she was sitting. “Let’s go.”

So they snuck round the Chantry in the middle of the night, dead quiet (case Cassandra or Madame de Fussybritches caught ‘em and pitched a fit). Falon was good at scaling buildings for a kid who’d grown up sniffing halla arse. Real good at it. Caught footholds in the cobblestones and made sure to stay out of sight of the windows. She didn’t have to hold his hand, though he tried to offer his to help her onto the roof.

“It’s on now,” she cackled as she pulled herself up. Once they were on the roof they found a good spot to pop a squat and aim.

“What do you think?” Falon asked. “Can you hit it?”

“It’s not ‘can I hit it’” Sera snorted. “It’s “How many times can I hit it before Commander Curly flips his shit.”

She knocked an arrow. Let it fly. Ripped a damn hole in the training dummy. Shite. Had to aim for the pole.

“My turn,” he said.

She watched him knock his arrow. She didn’t know good form from bad as long as the arrow hit.

He took his sweet time aiming though.

“Just fire already.”

His arrow whizzed right through the head of the dummy – glanced off and bounced uselessly against a tent.

They got a good three shots each in before Curly barged out of his tent in full armor. He was shouting something, probably rawr rawr we’re under attack aghhhh! But this was a good shot.

“Alright elfy,” she said. “One more shot.”

“I don’t think we should—“

“You chicken?”

“I’m not!” he said.

“Squawk squawk!” Sera said, pulling off her scarf and tying it round her arrow. “This’ll shut him up faster than running down there and talkin’ anyway.”

“Sera don’t,” he said. “What if you hit him?”

“I’m not gonna hit him,” she said, rolling her eyes. “Besides, look at all that armor. He’ll be fine if I do.”

“Come on—“

“Look, just cause you’ve never fired an arrow into a crowd without hitting anyone doesn’t mean I can’t.” She knocked her arrow. Let it fly. Struck the ground right in front of Curly’s feet. “See? Good, inn’t it?”

Falon squeaked.

Actually squeaked.

Maker this kid was a baby.

He giggled like a little idiot as Cullen picked up the arrow, untied the scarf, and sheathed his sword. He stopped giggling when commander jackboot started walking their way.

“Shite. Time to escape,” Sera said, slinging her bow over her back and yanking Falon to his feet by his collar. He scrambled after her as she hurried down the roof, and this little country bumpkin’s idea of escape was apparently to climb off the chantry roof and up a tree – Sera had to pull him off by the coat.

“No ya daft tit you go to your cabin and pretend nothin’ happened. Climb in the window or some shite.”

“What about you?”

“I’m gonna go give Solas a loogie,” Sera said. “That’ll take the attention off the arrows in the camp. Also _someone_ needs to.”

\----

Sera didn’t get much. Didn’t really get elfy elves, didn’t get all that elfy stuff Falon did around camp. Didn’t really get why Big Elfy and Small Elfy frigging hated each other. Small Elfy sometimes forgot to hate Big Elfy and the other way too. Sometimes they were Elfy together in their own annoying Elfy way. Then they went right back to hating each other.

But Falon left Sera out of the elfy shit. Most he ever did is slip up and call her lethalin.

“Call me that again and I’ll twang your ears,” she’d said. The next time he said it he covered his mouth and then his ears in case she decided to make good on her threat, while Solas laughed in the background. Sera twanged his ears instead.

When she’d heard Falon had actually punched Solas, like full on punch-a-bear punch, she actually stopped in the Rotunda to look at him. Solas had apparently already healed because he’d gone back to lying on the cushy bench thing and ignoring her.

“Did little elfy punch ya?”

“Yes.”

“Like really punched, not like a little, ‘oh you’ punch?”

“Yes.”

“Like really really punched—“

Solas reached into his shirt and handed her a tooth.

“Since you’re so curious.”

“EW!” Sera screeched. “Ew ew ew that’s just not right!”

She threw it back at him and ran out of the Rotunda.

After that Big Elfy and Little Elfy remembered to hate each other a little more often. Low blows too. Big Elfy made every little Elfy thing about how stupid the Dalish were and Sera might have laughed before. Might have. If Falon had made a big deal about it and oh we’re restoring our people by smelling like dirt and halla butt but no.

She’d heard him say he didn’t really care if the Dalish were right or daft, cause he wasn’t gonna start singing the chant about a hairy eyeball lady just cause he was far from home. Sera got that. Kind of. No she didn’t. She really didn’t.

She didn’t like when he started singing in elfy-lang and she didn’t like it when he did weird shit with twigs and leaves and smoke or whatever. Didn’t like his gross-ass (ass-gross?) food. (Ok maybe that thing with the squash was pretty good but the rest of it was gross.)

But when Falon was making rubs of a tile and Solas said stuff like, “With the information on that tile you could start a Dalish Clan with a wider pool of knowledge than most,” he was just being a titbiscuit.

And Falon didn’t even fight back. It wasn’t even _funny._

Like kicking a puppy.

And he didn’t even want to draw on everything in chalk with her after! Just said, “You go ahead, I’m gonna sit down for a bit.”

At Skyhold he stopped coming to visit her for a while, til Iron Bull got his guys to go drag him down to the tavern for food. He wasn’t any fun anymore, didn’t want to play or pull pranks or anything. And she didn’t get it. Ugh! Wasn’t like he was on his monthly this many months in a row!

She started helping. Started clamoring into his room and yanking him out. “Come on! We’re playin’ pin the butt on the nug!”

“That’s a thing?”

“We’ll _make it_ a thing! Let’s go!”

She just hated that little half smile. He used to smile _for real._ Now he just looked...sad. Dull. Ugh.

She blamed Solas. She didn’t know what he said but he probably deserved some Red Jenny action. His inks and paints started going missing. She put lizards in his bedroll. Snuck a spider in that dead wolf he wore over his shoulder. (Hehehehehe).

She eased off a bit when Falon asked her. “I’m not getting back at him. You don’t have to either. There’s nothing to get back for.”

“Sure is. He’s being an arse—“

“He’s gonna keep being an asshole if you keep it up,” he said. “Just…please. Leave me out of it.”

Didn’t like Falon acting all _professional_ with a stick up his ass, but Sera backed off. A bit.


	7. Tempest

Samson had gotten Falon against the stone wall and suddenly Falon’s only defense was to throw his bow up to stop Samson’s sword. The blade cracked the bow down the center – it was useless now – but Falon had half a second he didn’t have before. He threw the broken pieces at Samson’s face and when he winced Falon pulled a flask from his belt. Any flask would do. He shattered it over himself. Ice. Samson felt the chill, it must be freezing his stinking human sweat to his skin, but Falon felt a fire brewing inside of him as he drew his blades.

He was tired of feeling like a lost fucking child.

He didn’t speak.

Just hard breaths as he jammed his blades in between plates of metal and slashed at Samson’s face while he struggled to move away.

When the ice began to thaw Falon wasted no time reaching for another flask. He didn’t care to see which, but as he broke it in his palm it ran a surge of power through him. Lightning. He was flooded with adrenaline and he felt light. He ducked under Samson and drove one of his knives into the leather of Samson’s armor. Knicked something good, because he could see the blood start to bubble under his blade as he withdrew and slashed again at Samson’s underarms.

The effect wore off too soon. Samson struck him hard in the jaw with the pommel of his blade.

"Fenedhis," Falon hissed.

And Falon stumbled backwards, scrambled to stay on his feet with all the ringing in his ears and the blistering pain in his jaw and—

He threw a smoke bomb down and used the distraction to duck behind a rock. If he had his bow, and a good fifty meters on Samson, the man would be dead already. But they just had to meet at close range.

“Come on out you little meddling knife ear,” Samson swore after him.

No matter how many times he heard the words knife ear he never stopped feeling his brother’s blood on his face. He stood up, a knife in either hand as Samson approached. He’d show Samson what a _knife ear_ could do.

He cracked a vial of poison between his blades and struck them against each other so hard sparks flew off the metal. One cut and three minutes and Samson would be paralyzed on the ground.

He hadn’t made the poison to fight Samson, and it was too strong a poison to use in a normal fight. If he made a mistake, got a little on his skin and didn’t notice, it would be _him_ paralyzed on the ground (albeit in an hour or so – blood contact was much more efficient).

He had almost forgotten he wasn’t fighting alone, and with the distance between them Sera was taking full advantage, firing at Samson from full draw while Solas unleashed a stream of flames at the man. Blackwall – the big stupid idiot – pushed ahead of Falon and bellowed, “Come at me, monster.”

The cynical part of Falon reminded him that he wasn’t allowed to die yet. Not while he was still needed.

The rational part of Falon knew that they had coordinated to give him the perfect opening – Samson’s attention was divided by the arrows to the left of him, the flames to his right, and Blackwall bearing down on him from the front, with an elven sentinel taking down the last of his men. Falon was by far the least threatening.

He was almost out of flasks. He’d make them count.


	8. How to Lose Friends and Alienate People

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falon has a temper.

The second after he punched Solas, he turned away. He half wanted Solas to punch him back. Shoot a fireball at him. Anything.

He didn't. He didn't curse him, or call him names. He didn't do anything that might even the score.

"How entirely expected," he said, rubbing his jaw. "By your leave, Inquisitor."

Every time they spoke after, Solas was mostly polite. Professional. He made snide remarks here and there, quietly mocking Falon when he took etchings of old elvhen carvings and writings, or when he prayed, or talked about his clan. And Falon forced himself not to respond. He couldn't give Solas the satisfaction of lashing out.

But he had, already, and he couldn't take it back.

He was always going to be the Dalish _savage_ who punched Solas over words.

\---

"Where's Hawke?"

Varric and Cassandra both asked that question. And at the battlements, Falon had gone quiet for a moment, before he realized he had to say something. Probably should have said something inspiring if he knew what was good for him. So he said, "Hawke didn't make it," and nothing else.

Cassandra had not been pleased, but she said nothing.

Varric looked like Falon had driven a knife in between his ribs and not had the mercy to pierce his heart.

When he tried to talk to Varric on the road, Varric had shrugged him off.

"Not now, Falon."

He never used his name. Always nicknames. Inquisitor. Thrasher. One time he'd called him Broody and quickly corrected himself, and when pressed he explained that "Broody" was actually his elven friend Fenris, but he'd joked that if he'd met Falon first he'd probably have taken the nickname. Fenris would have to be _Pointy_ or _Sparky_ or something equally descriptive.

Eventually, Varric talked to him again.

But he called him by name, now.

\---

When he sent the wardens away, Blackwall had been quick to ask if he was meant to leave as well. And Falon was conflicted, for a moment. Sending Blackwall away made sense if he was vulnerable to corruption like the others. But Blackwall wasn't like the others. He'd fought by their side this whole time, and Falon couldn't bring himself to send him away.

He felt dozens of eyes on him as he said, "You've always been a help to us. You can stay."

Blackwall nodded.

But out in the field, on the road, he wasn't like before. He watched Falon's back, but he was quiet. Kept to himself, stopped asking questions about Falon's clan. Falon started offering up details, desperate to get him poking and prodding and asking stupid questions again.

But it was like talking to stone. Blackwall nodded, huffed, and went about his business.

\---

When the letter came in from Lelianna's agents that several agents of the House of Repose had been killed in their attempts to destroy the contract on the Montliyets, Josephine hadn't yelled at him. She told him about her past as a Bard, how she'd killed a friend and if she'd just used her words instead of fighting then maybe he wouldn't be dead right now.

Falon had snorted.

"You swore up and down diplomacy would save my clan and look what happened there. Sorry, Josephine. I couldn't risk it again."

She'd clenched her fists. And promised to meet him back at Skyhold.

They didn't speak of it again. Maybe Josephine was a little more apologetic than she'd been before, but between her and Falon things were strictly business.

\---

He could feel Sera's eyes boring into his back as he asked Abelas help their people, even as he laughed sullenly and thanked Abelas because, well, at least he was honest. She couldn't resist snipping at the guide who led them through the temple.

He felt like a child listening in on a conversation he wasn't meant to when Abelas and Solas talked, and he strained to listen in on their exchange even as Solas switched to elvhen. Fluent elvhen. Like it was the only language he'd ever spoken. And all the while Sera tugged at his shirt and tried to pull him away until he turned around and snapped, "Stop it."

It wasn't until long after he'd drank of the well and they'd returned to Skyhold that Sera turned a bow on him. She put it away quickly enough but then she couldn't resist but tell him that she was relieved that from their trip she now knew that Mythal was a ruin, filled with demons. And Falon objected. "There's so much history there. Some of it has to be true."

"No. Now you're stupid. You can't think like that, because it's stupid. I get it. You're an elf. Be elfy. But you're the friggin' Herald of Andraste! If you go around spouting off about Mythal, people are gonna think you're stupid!"

"I've said I'm not the Herald," Falon snapped. "And this is important. People need to know about--"

"No. A thousand miles away all the little people are gonna hear is that the Herald of Andraste beat Coryphenus into tar. And they won't give a piss about Mythal. Not for me to say what you think, yeah? Just sayin. Keep it to yourself."

Falon turned around and punched the wall. Hard. His fist drove through the wood and his knuckles already ached. All of Sera's hangings rattled. Sketches she'd pinned up came loose and crumpled on the ground. Hangings clattered to the floor or shattered on the bench.

Again, the second after he'd done it, he wished he hadn't. He didn't even look at Sera. Just pulled his fist out of the wall and ran outside. Upstairs, so he wouldn't have to face anyone else.

\---

He'd been avoiding Sera as much as he could when Cole appeared in his room, sitting on the balcony. He'd learned that no matter how many times he told Cole to go away, Cole would always return, promising to help him better this time.

And this time Falon was a little short on friends, so he let Cole stay.

"They don't hate you."

"Who?"

"You know. Sera. Varric. Solas. Josephine. Blackwall. Especially Sera. She really wants to talk to you."

"So she can call me stupid again?"

"A little," Cole offered. "But not just that."

"How are you going to handle being human?" Falon asked. "Not being able to hear everyone's really going to be a pain, isn't it?"

"I can still hear. I just hear more of myself now." He hopped off the balcony and walked around to the desk, pointing at the door where Sera was probably picking the lock as they spoke. "You should let Sera talk to you. She won't beat you up, or shoot arrows at you, or set you on fire. She might draw pictures on your wall. And I'm not sure what that other thing is. But she doesn't want to hurt you."

"I shouldn't even be here," Falon muttered. "It should have been our First."

Cole strained. "Your father?"

He nodded.

"But didn't want to go. He asked Deshanna to send you because he wanted you to see. So you don't have to hurt anymore."

"See what?"

"That people aren't bad."

Falon set down his quill because he couldn't hold it without his hand shaking. And his face was hot and his nose was running again. When he reached for his hankerchief, Cole tucked a fresh one into his hand and smiled.

"I'm such an ass. Why do you even stick around?"

"You help people, but sometimes you need help too."

Falon was never going to understand Cole. But he reached out and hugged him. And Cole slung his long, gangly arms around Falon and awkwardly hugged him back.

Cole was warm, now. He'd always been a little cold before.


	9. Falon and the Last Few Years

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falon neglects his duties after Corypheus's defeat.

Arl Teagan,  
  
Although he still claims the title of Inquisitor, Inquisitor Lavellan has been absent from Skyhold for quite some time. Inquisitor Lavellan was long absent from Wycome at the time of the Duke's passing, so it is without question that his death is unrelated to the Inquisitor's travels.  
  
As for the nature of his current activities, it is public knowledge that he has joined the University of Orlais in both its schools of alchemy and its school of history. The Inquisitor's academic pursuits keep him absent physically although he is still active in our leadership.  
  
While I realize this may be of some concern to those requesting an audience, I would like to note that while the immediate danger has passed the Inquisitor understands and respects that he will have to return should danger arise again. I will pass these concerns on and you will likely receive a letter from our Inquisitor within two weeks time.   
  
Best,  
Josephine Montiliyet.  
  
 _An short letter in an urgent scrawl is clipped behind the first._

  
Falon,

Your presence is required at Skyhold at once. While you still hold this title you cannot afford to appear absent.  
  
\- JM  
  
 _A second note penned in charcoal on a sheet of charred vellum has been bundled with the first two letters. It is barely legible._  
  
Josephine,  
  
Didn't ask for the title. Dissolve the Inquisition and get it over with.  
  
\- Falon

P.S. Share with Cullen and Leliana.


	10. Victory and Defeat

Blackwall always seemed to end a sparring match with Falon laughing. His beard got funny when he laughed, like vines on a willow shaking off the rain. (He was also completely drenched in sweat by the time they finished.)

Falon was quick, but not very strong. Blackwall was tough, and sturdy, and he moved with efficiency. And he hit like an ogre. Falon had several ugly bruises from where Blackwall had bashed him with his shield or knocked him to the ground.

“Come on, pup,” Blackwall said. “Let’s go again. You’re getting better.”

Falon picked himself up off the ground and panted, “Doesn’t feel much like it.”

“Well I’m not going easy on you anymore,” Blackwall said. “That could be why.”

Falon couldn’t help but laugh a little. “You’re pulling my leg. You hit Cassandra way harder than that.”

“Only because she’d hit me even harder if I didn’t.”

They squared up on opposite sides of the circle they’d drawn in the ground, and Falon took up a loose stance. His muscles ached. They’d been at this for an hour. But he wanted to win, just once, before he quit.

They didn’t count to three, or ask if the other was ready. They took their stances, and waited just a moment.

Blackwall charged in, shield up, and spun around with his wooden sword. Falon didn’t bother blocking, just stepped backwards out of the way and rolled past Blackwall. He moved to stab at Blackwall’s flank but the Warden spun quickly to block and countered by slashing again.

Falon ducked under the slash and from the ground kicked hard at Blackwall’s thigh. He buckled, just a bit, and Falon hurriedly pressed the tip of his training blade to Blackwall’s collar.

It was a short exchange, but they were both out of breath. Falon slowly removed his sword and set it on the ground while Blackwall carelessly dropped his sword and shield and swore as he grabbed his leg. “Andraste’s knickers, you didn’t hold back did you.”

“Sorry,” Falon said. “I can get one of the healers and—”

“Don’t be sorry. Get up.”

For a moment Falon was sure he’d be chided for overdoing it, but all Blackwall did was laugh breathlessly as he ruffled Falon’s hair. “Hey!”

“You just beat the Grand Tourney Champion. How does it feel?”

Falon hesitated.

And then he snickered, and Blackwall chortled, and they laughed until they were both on their asses crying in the middle of the ring.

\---

Dorian cheated at chess. That’s what Cullen said, but Falon was pretty sure he was so bad Dorian wouldn’t have to cheat to win. He didn’t get what all those books said about thinking several steps ahead. Whenever he tried to do that, his plans fell through and he ended up losing a vital piece. If he improvised, moving his piece left another vulnerable, and so on.

Almost every time he beat Falon, Dorian patted him on the back and said, “Don’t worry. This game has no bearing on anything important. It’s a stupid game for rich idiots.”

But Falon hated to lose, so he asked Vivienne to play a few games with him. (She was, after all, the richest person he knew.)

“Darling, why the sudden interest in chess?”

“I’m awful at it,” Falon said, “And if I just play with Dorian, he’ll start cheating if I get good. Can you help me?”

Vivienne flashed a grin so wide Falon could see a bit of red paint staining her teeth. “Absolutely darling.”

So they played a few games, Vivienne airily explained the moves as they went. “Most games start with a King’s Gambit. It’s most efficient. If your opponent stumbles, you can catch them in two moves. Like so. Checkmate. Again?”

Falon was red in the face by the time Vivienne concluded their match, though she ended by having one of the servants bring up tea and cakes for them. “Your problem, dear, is that you’re not willing to sacrifice a few pieces to further your goals.”

“But if I do that, I won’t have them later if I need them.”

“The idea is to end the game quickly, dear. You don’t want there to be a time when you’ll need them. Come see me tomorrow, if you have time. I’ll have a few books brought up for you.”

“I’ve read some books already,” Falon muttered.

“Well then, you’ll have an easy time with these.”

So they played together a few more times, and Dorian teased him as he passed the library about trying to sneak a few practice rounds with Vivienne so he could lose a little less badly, and Falon made faces and stuck his tongue out and one time casually pulled a book off Dorian’s table, removed the bookmark, and threw it over the railing so it fluttered down onto Solas’s desk. While Solas sighed loudly and Dorian frustratedly tried to find his page, Falon slipped off to play a few matches with Vivienne.

The first real game they played, no explanations, no questions, no _teaching moments_ ¸ Falon put Vivienne in check twice before she caught him in a vice he only noticed when he attempted to move a pawn only to realize that would put him in checkmate. When he tried to figure a solution, he couldn’t find one, and so he took a move that put Vivienne in check but would sacrifice his queen the next turn instead.

He held on for a few more turns like that before he was truly out of options, and when Vivienne put him in checkmate and asked him what he thought of that game, he said, “I think I lost, again.”

“But do you think you played well?”

“I lost,” he repeated.

“So pessimistic. Look at the board, dear. If it came to stalemate, you’d have more points than me.”

“But it didn’t come to stalemate.”

“This time. But you could likely give our Tevinter friend a run for his money, yes?”

Falon felt a little flutter of warmth in his chest and said, “You think so?”

“If not, we’ll have to continue our games until he does.”

\---

The first time Falon played Wicked Grace with Varric was a week after Solas had left, and Corypheus was defeated. He’d felt a strange anxiety in the pit of his stomach ever since, like he’d lost another clanmate. He felt stupid for feeling that way, since he knew Solas didn’t like him much and would hate being treated like one of the Dalish, but he couldn’t help it.

He didn’t know which cards were good and which were bad so the first few hands he threw down at random just to see what would happen. A loss, a loss, and a win. The next few hands he started getting the swing of things and actually winning the pots, but then the second he raised his bets to match Iron Bull’s and Josephine’s he found himself losing again.

“You there, kid?” Varric teased. “If you don’t come back you’re gonna lose the whole pot.”

“Sorry,” he said. “I just…”

“Don’t be sorry. We’re here to have fun, and lose a little money to our ambassador over there.”

Falon snorted.

“Sorry. I’ll try to have a little more fun losing all my money.”

“That’s the spirit.”

\----

When they walked the Emerald Graves, Falon couldn’t help but ask Solas, “You know why it’s called the Emerald Graves, right?”

Solas glanced over at Falon, his ears flicking, his eyes squintier than ever, and said, “I’m aware. Why?”

“Doesn’t it bother you?”

“Why should it?” Solas retorted. “I am not Dalish. And I see no point in mourning a people whose ignorance led them to their own demise.”

Falon only unclenched his jaw when it _cracked_ loudly, and they walked in silence to the next camp. When they set up for the night, awaiting the scouts, he finished pitching his tent and fetching water only to find Solas eyeing one of the Knight’s Guardians looming over the camp.

Falon had pitched his tents behind the statue, so it faced away from the camp. The others had pitched their tents beside or even in front of it.

“The Emerald Knights used to ride into battle with wolves like that,” Falon said. “Or at least that’s what the stories say. They were probably just dogs. But it’s a nice story.”

“The Dalish tell many stories,” Solas muttered.

“Well, so do you,” Falon said. “And you’re always on about how you walk the Fade visiting memories. But you said it yourself. They’re subjective. They’re real but they’re not. You could be visiting old delusions for all you know, or…”

Solas spun around quickly and leered down at Falon. “You do not know of what you speak.”

Falon wasn’t sure he’d ever seen Solas that angry. Not when Solas had accosted at him in the Rotunda. Falon had never felt so small next to Solas before, but he squared his shoulders and stood tall.

“Neither do you, _Hahren_ ,” he shot back.

Solas looked for a moment like he was going to respond, but he swallowed whatever he was about to say and stormed off. Falon tasted victory, but not half a second later he realized how hollow it was. Like finding purchase on a branch only for it to snap under his feet, leaving him dangling and lost.


	11. Alchemy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falon has a particular relationship with elfroot.

Early on in his days with the Inquisition, Falon met Adan, the healer, and offered to search around for the last healer’s alchemical notes. He found them, and holed up in a cabin for a few hours reading through them until Cassandra came looking for him. She found him lounging on the floor, having long abandoned the desk, and carefully going over the notes and taking a few of his own in a notebook Varric had gifted to him.

Cassandra groaned when she came across him. “There you are. You should not wander like this.”

“I’m not wandering,” Falon muttered. “I told Adan I’d find these for him.”

Cassandra sighed, and walked over to him. “And you decided to read them?”

“I’ve never had alchemy texts before,” Falon said. “We just kind of know, you know? But this stuff is interesting, if it’s right.”

“Do you have any idea how late it is?”

Falon gathered up his notes and threw on his coat, and his boots, and followed Cassandra just outside. It was dark. Really dark, because the light from Haven was overwhelming the stars and it was all you could really see. You could see a bit, but you couldn’t see the streaks of color across the sky like you could walking the Marches.

“I guess I lost track of time,” Falon said.

Cassandra shook her head. “If you need a rest, tell me. I’ll keep the others from bothering you. Right now, you are the only one who can seal the rifts. The only one who may be able to seal the Breach. We cannot lose you.”

Falon felt a pit in his stomach, but he nodded numbly. “I’m sorry.”

Cassandra clapped a hand on his shoulder and together they trudged through the snow back to Haven, where Falon sullenly returned the notes to Adan and forced a smile when Adan clapped him on the back and thanked him. He went to bed without eating much, and his own notes lay neglected on his desk for a full week before he returned to them.

\--

Varric teased Falon when he stopped too many times to examine the herbs in the region. He took clippings and pressed them in between the pages of his notebook for later, and when they had free time he’d ask the healers what type of herb it was or what they called it in Ferelden. Most of the herbs were the same, but there were a few that were new to him. Spindleweed, for example, liked warmer areas, so he hadn’t really seen it up in the Marches.

At the end of a long day Falon took to brewing tea with some of the harmless herbs he’d found. Ginger and elfroot was good for the aches, clove and blood lotus would all but cure a runny nose. Solas occasionally asked him about what he was doing, and Falon would answer, “Making tea.”

Solas would snort and say, “Oh. Tea. Of course.”

At first he took it as a slight against the Dalish. Maybe he thought they were uncivilized for drinking tea made from local herbs instead of purchased in a market (which he would never understand, considering how common many of the herbs were and how overpriced the tea in the marketplaces were). In time Falon learned that Solas didn’t like tea from the markets either. Something something interfering with his dreams.

Cassandra occasionally took a little tea, as did Varric. After a long day out in the rain Varric was grumbling about the cold he was certain to develop, and Falon would casually offer him a little clove and ginger tea with some blood lotus to stave off the sniffles.

Varric accepted in no time at all, and Falon was delighted when he talked about how his healer friend used to make a tea the same way, “Though he didn’t use as much ginger. Makes it taste less like medicine.”

“My dad used to make it for me whenever I got the sniffles. Helps settle an upset stomach too.”

Varric chuckled, and they spent the rest of the evening sharing stories, though Falon preferred to listen since talking about home made him sick in a way no tea was going to fix.

\--

It was actually Sera that first alerted Falon to his apparent aptitude for alchemy, since she specialized in creating potions that would burn her enemies but keep her safe. The ingredients were hard to come by, so at first she didn’t do too much with them, but as the Inquisition grew her concoctions got wilder and wilder.

They were in the tavern, Falon sipping a little illicit ale that Sera had picked up for him and trying his hardest not to gag, Sera had thrown her feet up on the table and offhandedly say, “It’s not an elfy thing, yeah? I get that you’re good with the potions and the teas and stuff but that’s cause you’re a smart little shit. Not an elfy thing.”

He tried not to bristle when Sera insisted it wasn’t an elfy thing. He didn’t see why that was bad.

“What, the potions? That’s nothing.” He focused on the compliment instead.

“Yeah, well, it’s nothing for you. You just know, you know? But big stuffy Adan up on that hill? He had to study that in a big fancy college for rich tit herbalists. I had to blow myself up a few times to get my potions right, but you? I bet it all just clicks for you.”

Falon didn’t know what to say, so he didn’t say anything.

The next person to alert him to his alchemical talents was Iron Bull, who offhandedly remarked, “You’ve got spindleweed under your fingernails, boss. Might tip off your enemies that you’re packing poison. If they’re smart.”

Falon took care to wash up carefully any time he finished picking and grinding herbs after that.

Vivienne merely chided him for wasting time.

“It’s alright to enjoy it, but healing potions are well within the capabilities of our healers. Why not devote your time to improving your craft? I’ll order a few texts more suited to your skill level.”

He almost thought it was a slight, until she ordered the books and he realized how advanced they were. He spent days poring through them, losing sleep over it and pestering Vivienne at odd hours to ask questions about the techniques mentioned if he wasn’t quite familiar with them. Often he found he was, in fact, familiar with the techniques but unfamiliar with the lingo, and Vivienne seemed absolutely delighted with his questions.

He only ceased his late-night alchemical studies when Solas complained, “I can understand being enthralled by an interesting tome, but both of us need rest.”

And then, when instead of dousing his candle and going to sleep, Falon offered to be quieter, Solas clapped a hand onto his forehead and slowly slid it down his face before taking a deep, strained breath and saying, “Falon. Sleep. Now.”

After that point, he tried to limit his all-nighters to his cabin, and not in camp.

\--

When Falon woke after stumbling into the Inquisition camp, exhausted and injured and covered in blood, he awoke with a splitting headache and a throbbing in his hand. He attributed the headache to Josie, Lelianna, and Cullen yelling at each other, and was relieved when Solas pulled him aside.

The headache went away, eventually, but the throbbing in his hand continued for a time. When it didn’t go away on its own, he asked Solas if there was anything he could do for it, and Solas inspected it for a moment, cast some sort of spell, and told Falon to let him know if it troubled him again.

The pain stayed away for a time.

Sometime after they reached Skyhold, however, the headaches returned with a vengeance. He stopped sleeping through the nights, and had vivid nightmares about his encounter with Corypheus. He relived the moment when things got too quiet or his hands became too idle, and found himself staying up late almost every night. He took baths, frequently, submerged his whole head underwater and held his breath for a while.

It did nothing for the headaches, but it was a different kind of pressure, and somehow that soothed him.

He started making a strong, bitter tea out of carefully prepared elfroot and blood lotus, mixed in with ginger and cinnamon and cloves to mask the taste. That more or less cleared up his headaches, but the dreams still kept him tossing and turning at night. He didn’t quite realize how bad it was until Solas, sometime after their spat, shook him awake in camp one night.

Solas clutched his side with one hand and held Falon’s shoulder with the other. Falon gathered that he had kicked Solas hard in the side while he slept, and though Solas was obviously irritated he seemed more concerned.

“You were thrashing in your sleep, da’len.”

Falon’s gut reaction was, “Don’t call me that.”

They were tired. Solas almost never called him da’len. He didn’t apologize, he didn’t even mention it. He moved on.

“Whatever is troubling you, please do not hide it. It benefits no one.”

Falon, exhausted and frustrated, snapped, “I was supposed to go home when the Breach was sealed. And instead I’m stuck here, with you, with all this.”

Solas’s ears flattened against his skull, and his brow rose. “Is that all?”

Falon felt his own ears go flat against his head and his face get hot and he felt the beginnings of a headache, like something clawing at the back of his eye. That particular feeling, apparently, was mutual. “I’m taking a walk. Sorry for waking you.”

About a week later, Falon returned to Solas to ask if he knew any potions to stave off dreams, since he was embarrassed to speak about it with Vivienne, and Solas had already gathered that information when Falon kicked him.

“What is it?” Solas asked, barely looking up from his own notes to regard Falon.

Falon felt himself clasping his hands and pressing the pads of his thumbs together like two stones striking together to spark a fire, twitching nervously as he explained, “I was wondering if you knew of any…alchemical remedies for bad dreams.”

Solas, who had just a moment before been hunched over his desk and barely turning his ears to acknowledge Falon, suddenly looked up, relaxed, like he’d been waiting for this question all along. “Why ask me? Why not Vivienne?”

“Vivienne doesn’t know,” Falon said. “And she doesn’t need to. No one else needs to.”

“Ah,” Solas said. “I’ll have a recipe sent up to your quarters in a few hours. I’m sure you can modify it if needed.”

“Thanks,” Falon said. He hurried out of the rotunda as quickly as he could to avoid another confrontation.

\--

Falon spent most of his free time working on potions, desperate to keep his hands and his mind busy after the news of his clan’s destruction. He was furious, and heartbroken, and couldn’t imagine where he would go when this ended. He felt like the ground had crumbled beneath his feet.

Enough.

He almost liked it when he burned himself or cut himself or got a little acid in a wound, because it hurt but it was a different kind of hurt from the one in his head.

Cole took to lingering nearby when Falon worked on his notes or attempted to improve on Sera’s recipes, and though he often didn’t talk, Falon found that the hairs on the back of his neck stood on end when Cole was nearby even if Cole didn’t show himself. He could just…tell.

“Crush these, mince those, level the flame at four hundred degrees, keep the water at just a simmer…when the salts dissolve in the water it takes the rest with it. Still there, but different. It helps.”

“You wanna help?” Falon muttered. “Get me some more spindleweed.”

Cole cocked his head. He was perched up on a windowsill overhead, holding a fat orange cat under his arm. “I already did. It’s in your basket.”

Falon rolled his eyes and said, “Thanks. Big help. Can you stop chatting?”

“I’m sorry,” Cole said. “I thought it would bother you if the cats turned over your herbs.”

Falon didn’t say another word, but he stopped trying to get Cole to leave him while he worked when he realized that cats did in fact turn over his herbs more often when Cole wasn’t around.

\--

Dorian cackled with delight whenever Falon showed up in the library to trade in his old alchemy texts for new ones. “Which ones are we looking for today?” Dorian said, clapping his hands together. “Oh! How about this one? Marvels of the Modern Age: an Alchemist’s Treatise?”

“Finished it,” Falon said. “Doesn’t much live up to the title.”

“Well, it was very modern in the third era.”

“Too bad it was written in the fourth,” Falon replied. “What about you? Do you ever leave the library?”

“I would take my meals here, if the tranquil did not give me that bizarre monotone. Please do not stain the books, Ser Pavus. Ugh.”

“Can you reach up there for me? Lessons from the Tranquil: an Alchemist’s Handbook. The one with the purple cover and the silver lettering.”

Dorian pulled it down, blew the dust off of it, and cracked it open. “I expect dry writing.”

“Tranquil make good alchemists,” Falon said.

“Yes. Good but very unnerving alchemists.”

Falon glanced over the balcony to watch a Tranquil carrying books to Vivienne’s lounge, and back at Dorian. He didn’t much mind the Tranquil, though he was confused by them at first. He didn’t think it was something that should be forced on anyone either. It wasn’t really until Redcliffe that he’d had any particular fear of magic.

It was always exciting to watch his father or his keeper cast, and when his brother started showing signs, Falon had become excited as well. He had hoped that he might show signs too, so he could spend more time with his father.

It never happened though, and his father, though a constant presence, had little time to spend teaching him. He had to learn other crafts, and he had to decide what place he was to take. The First couldn’t help him with that.

Of course, none of that mattered now. His father, along with the rest of his clan, was dead.

He changed the subject. “So what about you? Still trying to find Corypheus’s family name?”

“Me? Why that’s one of my favorite subjects. I have a lead,” Dorian said. “Ask Josephine. I’ve already filled her in. But I think a few friends in Tevinter might find the information of interest.”

\--

Varric liked watching Falon work. Every now and again, just as Falon was running out of pages in his journal, Varric would appear with a new one. Fresh paper, often very nice leather binding, and a nice set of ink and quills to write with. Even after what happened with Hawke, the journals would still mysteriously appear in Falon’s study along with a nicely wrapped set of quills and ink.

He wanted to talk to Varric, but didn’t know what to say for a long time. Eventually, while he and Varric traipsed through the wilderness, preparing to head off a squadron of red templars, he turned to Varric and said, “My clan was attacked several months ago. As far as I know, there were no survivors.”

“Shit,” Varric said. “I figured something was up but, well, what isn’t around here?”

“I’m sorry about how I’ve been lately,” Falon said. “I don’t mean to be but—”

“Say no more,” Varric said. “If you weren’t angry it’d be weird.”

“But not at you,” Falon said. “And Hawke—that wasn’t about—”

“Inquisitor, look. I don’t blame you. I don’t blame you, or Blondie, or the Wardens. I just…wanted to keep her out of this mess in case she leapt into danger again. And she did. Like usual.”

“I’m sorry.”

Varric nodded. “Just don’t do what she did. Don’t let all this stuff get in your head and make you think you gotta fix everything yourself, even if it eats you up. Alright?”

Falon didn’t really know what Varric meant by that, but he nodded, and they got moving again.

\--

It started after meeting Professor Kendric and his students. Falon found himself petitioning for entry to the University of Orlais, and was promptly accepted. He told Lelianna first, because she would undoubtedly find out on her own.

“And you intend to go? Just like that?”

“Why not?” Falon said. “Corypheus is dead.”

“There’s much work left to be done, Inquisitor.”

“Let someone else do it,” Falon said. “I’m leaving. Let me be a little selfish for once.”

Lelianna shook her head, but she glanced up at Falon and said, “What will you be studying?”

“Alchemical history,” Falon replied. “Particularly Dalish alchemical history. Professor Kendric introduced me to a friend interested in that field.”

Her frown cracked into a little smile, and she said, “I’ll keep Josie and Cullen in the dark for a little while. That should give you time to prepare. Steel yourself, Inquisitor. They will not let you go easily.”


	12. Inexperience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falon is not a soldier, but he's forced into the role.

Cassandra plowed through Falon, knocking him to the ground on her way to shield him from the rage demon’s claws. She buckled under the weight of its attack, but she righted herself and slashed through its body, slicing it in two.

Falon clutched his arm close to his chest and looked at her in shock.

“I thought I’d…”

“Are you alright?” Cassandra asked, offering him a hand.

He took it, still stunned.

“I shot it through the eye,” he muttered. “I didn’t think it would keep fighting after that…”

“Fighting demons is not like fighting people,” Cassandra said. “They do not stop fighting when they are injured. You need to stay on your guard.”

He nodded slowly. “I’ve never even seen one before,” he said. “There’s so many. Do they ever end?”

Cassandra glanced up at the Breach. She grunted, and said, “That is what we must find out. Let’s go.”

\---

Solas threw up a barrier just in time to stop a terror from pulling Falon into its maw. Its claws were repelled from his leg and Falon had the split second he needed to jump back, putting distance enough between them to fire an arrow into its throat. Cassandra finished the job, slashing it through the midsection, and Solas pointed to the rift.

Falon threw up his hand and felt the rush of the magic pouring out and closing up the rift. When it snapped shut, he was pushed back a step. He let out a shaky breath.

“You are becoming quite proficient at this,” Solas said.

“Lucky for you all, I’m a quick learner,” Falon said, forcing a smile.

\--

He’d never seen anything as big as the Pride Demon that emerged from the Breach when he tried to close it. Solas instructed him to keep pushing at the Breach – it would stun the demons and allow them to wear it down.

It was a better situation for him than before, fighting alongside so many soldiers. The chantry soldiers caught the demon’s attention and he was able to slip away undetected to attack the rift again. But when more demons emerged, they targeted him. He was nearly trapped far away from the other soldiers with only his stolen bow for defense.

He fired two shots in rapid succession and when the demons fell in heaps onto the ground he saw four bolts between them, lodged in different parts of their spines. Varric nodded at him from across the field.

\--

Solas glanced over Falon in camp as he removed some bandages on his calf, treated his wound with an elfroot compress, and replaced the bandages with fresh ones. It was a minor wound, not one that required urgent healing, but Solas still asked, “Do you need help?”

Falon glanced up on him, and seemed to suddenly remember that he was travelling with a pack of well-supplied mages.

“Oh. I mean,” he looked at it. “I guess. It doesn’t hurt. Just a scratch, but…”

“It is no trouble.”

Falon sighed and moved closer. “I’m just used to taking care of this type of thing myself is all. It’s just the First and Keeper Deshanna back home.”

Solas nodded and set to work healing the wound.

“And they’re busy all the time,” Falon muttered. “I don’t want to bother them with things like this. There’s fifty in our clan and two of them.”

“There. You should be able to remove the bandages now.”

Falon started to untie the bandages, and the wound was gone. Not even a scar remained. “Thanks,” he said.

Solas nodded. “You are welcome.”

\--

“Falon, whatever are you doing?” Vivienne asked, peering over Falon as he stooped in front of a bundle of elfroot.

He peered up. “Just picking a bit for later.”

“Dear, with the Inquisition’s resources we should be able to order you some.”

“I guess,” Falon muttered. “But there’s so much out here and—”

“Still used to foraging, huh?” Varric asked, poking up behind Vivienne.

Falon nodded. “It’s just, y’know, if the stocks get low this way we don’t have to take from the soldiers or…”

“We’re quite well-supplied,” Vivienne said.

“Don’t worry Thrasher,” Varric laughed. “You don’t have to feed the whole army by yourself.”

Falon felt his ears dip. “Right. Sorry.”

\--

Dorian planted a hand on either of Falon’s shoulders. “Stay with me now. Don’t worry. I’m here. I’ll protect you.”

Falon couldn’t imagine getting out of this alive. They would fail, and everything would end. They’d failed. It was done. But when Dorian said that he’d protect him, Falon was soothed. He nodded, took a deep breath.

“Alright. How do we fix this?”

\--

Sparring with Bull made Falon realize something.

He was small.

When he tried throws that used to topple his partners back in his clan, Bull barely budged. Bull could play deadweight. He could pick Falon up by the back of his shirt and throw him, and it didn’t trouble him at all.

“Hey, it’s better you figure it out here than in a real fight,” Bull said with a grin. “I bet that’d work on Cullen or Cassandra, but you’ll have to be a little smarter with me. I could just sit on you. Then? Fight over.”

Sometimes others would stop by and watch him spar. Cassandra and Solas had both paused to watch, though Solas had a knack for making himself scarce whenever Falon noticed him watching.

He straightened up and got ready for another round. Bull charged at him and Falon ducked out of the way. When Bull moved to shove him with his shoulder, Falon spun just a bit to the side and kicked his foot out at Bull’s bad leg.

Bull only paused for half a second before reaching out and grabbing Falon by the shirt. Then he spun him and tossed him against the fence.

Falon recovered quickly and waited for Bull to charge again. This time he sommersaulted past Bull and when Bull stopped short, he bashed into Bull’s back as hard as he could. That finally threw Bull off balance and Falon could grab his arm and pull, hard. Bull fell on the ground, laughing his ass off the whole time.

“See that! That was better!”

\--

Cullen, whenever he caught Falon training, would stop what he was doing and offer bits and pieces of advice.

“Watch your feet. You tend to cross them on that move. On uneven terrain, you’ll likely lose your footing and topple.”

“You’ve got four fingers and you’re only using two of them to knock that arrow. You’ll shoot faster if you practice holding more in your firing hand.”

“You don’t need to put all your strength into every move. Here. This,” he gestured a quick move with his shield before spinning the other way and slashing with his sword, “constitutes a feint. Just like that. Don’t need to tire yourself out before you’ve won.”

Just small bits, here and there, but he found himself practicing closer to Cullen’s office.

\--

“Did you ever even fight people before?” Sera asked.

Falon felt his ears go flat against his skull. “Yeah. Never upfront like this though.”

“What?”

“I was able to surprise them, I mean,” Falon said. “Here, half the time it feels like they know we’re coming and I can’t get the drop on the bad guys.”

“So it wasn’t just hunting and stuff?”

“I wish it was,” Falon muttered.

\--

Cole smiled at Falon after he woke in the middle of the night, too anxious to sleep much. Even with the potions, he couldn’t always eke out a full night’s rest. Solas was back in the tent, and he didn’t want to wake him by lighting a candle and flipping through his books.

“What are you smiling about?”

Cole cocked his head.

“You’ve changed! A lot!”

“I had to,” Falon muttered.

Cole shut his eyes and focused. “Arrow. Arrow. Shit. There’s so many. I can’t do this, I can’t—”

Falon blinked.

“But now you’re not like that. _Five, plus two archers in the rear. Slip into the shadows and take out the archers one at a time. Bull holds the five with Solas defending. Then, take their position and fire._ ”

“You think?”

“They all think so,” Cole said.

\--

Solas carried a small stack of notes to Falon’s quarters, only to find he wasn’t there. He carried the notes with him rather than leave them unattended, and after briefly questioning the servants found that Falon was visiting his hart in the stables.

Solas hated that Hart. It was aggressive, terrorizing servants and soldiers alike. It had tried to bite him on more than one occasion, and had succeeded. Solas might have had a scar on the back of his head to attest to its aggression, if he’d been any slower at healing it.

But it was, if not gentle, friendly with Falon. Ever since acquiring it, Falon had spent more nights under the stars with the hart instead of under a tent, kicking Solas in the side. So the hart had some worth, at least.

When he finally came across them, Falon was sitting in the open pen with the hart, cleaning its hooves.

“Falon.”

Falon hushed him. “Don’t spook him,” Falon muttered. “Let me finish this one.”

Solas sat in silence as Falon finished picking the mud from the hart’s hooves. He hung the pick on the gate as he shut the door.

“I’ve some research for you regarding the temple of Dirthamen. These are my notes, along with a summary. I’ve passed a copy along to Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana.”

“Oh. You didn’t really need to bring them. I’ll have to pick them up from you in a bit. Hauwen’s not going to read them, and I’m the only one who can groom him right.”

“Is it really appropriate to keep it, in that case?”

“He’s fast,” Falon said. “And loyal. Smarter than a horse and doesn’t spook as easy. And he rides easy, for me at least.”

“It spooks at the sight of everyone other than you.”

“He likes Sera,” Falon replied. “And Dorian, Varric, and Blackwall. He just rides best with me.”

“Any of the horses here would ride as easily for you, and are as fast and well-trained as it. Why you insist on choosing the most aggressive mount—”

The hart snorted loudly, and clopped its feet against the ground.

Falon folded his arms and leaned back against the gate while the hart slowly lowered its nose to huff in Falon’s ear.

“I know you don’t like the Dalish, but I’ve ridden Halla all my life and never had a problem with them. You have to trust them, or they won’t trust you. I’ll keep riding Hauwen, thanks.”

Solas relented. “As you wish, Inquisitor. On this subject, you are perhaps more educated than I.”

And with that, Solas turned on his heel and left, not oblivious to the puzzled smile that wormed its way onto Falon’s face at the admission.


	13. Surviving

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Falon struggles with the destruction of Haven. 
> 
> TW: Suicide Ideation.

His breastplate dug painfully into his skin. Falon used his knife to cut away the straps so he could get it off, but this did not reduce the tightness in his chest. He stood, slowly. Everything hurt. His back felt wet and sticky and it stung when he tried to raise his arms over his head. Whatever cavern he’d fallen into, it was dark.

He had to go.

He couldn’t run. He could only move one step at a time, slowly, like a child being taught to walk for the first time.

The anchor hadn’t stopped going crazy since Corypheus found him. It still smoldered in his palm like a hot coal rested in his fist. Only he couldn’t drop it. It was permanent, as Corypheus put it.

Falon wondered how many people were dead.

He had seen Cassandra waiting on horseback for Solas and Sera, as though they could outrun a dragon and an avalanche on horseback.

But Falon had left the Chantry fully expecting to die.

It had always been an abstract thing before, something he knew could happen but refused to believe could happen to him until that moment. He’d seen people die before. He’d killed people, even, in skirmishes, in bandit raids, trying to escape nobles who would hunt him like a dog…

Even when he told Cullen what he was going to do, that he was going to run back down the mountain and bury Corypheus with him, he didn’t really think he wouldn’t escape. He’d always escaped before.

He didn’t really think about dying until Corypheus grabbed him by the wrist.

He remembered how his voice cracked when he said he wasn’t afraid, how Corypheus’s voice went low and solemn, _almost_ like he pitied the boy he was about to mutilate and potentially feed to a blighted dragon.

He couldn’t think about that. Haven was gone and thinking about it wouldn’t bring it back. He had to move forward. He had to keep moving.

He acted on instinct when he saw a pair of despair demons lurking in the cave. Threw up his hand and a rift swallowed them up. It felt like his whole arm was on fire after, almost as bad as when he closed a rift.

He kept moving.

He made it outside into the blizzard and saw the mountain he would have to climb to reach the place where Cullen had fired the flare from.  Miles of white. He could barely even see the treeline. Couldn’t see much of anything through the storm.

He kept moving.

The snow striking his skin might as well have been gravel, and it was endless. He could barely hear over the whistling of wind, couldn’t see a damn thing. He threw up an arm to keep the snow out of his eyes and kept walking.

At some point he’d walked too far, too long, and he fell to his knees and into the snow. He’d scream if his chest wasn’t already inflamed and hot with pain. He might have broken something.

He started to close his eyes.

He remembered, once, when he was little, he’d fallen out of a tree and his mother had held him, told Athim to keep him talking because if he fell asleep he might not wake up.

He stood.

It was agony but he stood.

He kept moving.

He was cold and covered in blood and sweat and he might have even been crying. He was too delirious to tell. He was thirsty, his stomach ached. He could eat when he caught up to the others, he decided.

He could hear wolves howling in the distance.

He wondered if they would be attracted to the scent of his blood, if the wolves were as hungry and desperate as he was.

He wouldn’t let them make a meal of him. Not yet.

Eventually his chest stopped hurting, and though he couldn’t move faster, though he knew he was slowing down, absolutely nothing hurt. He felt alright.

His legs gave out under him as Cullen and Cassandra rushed towards him.

“Thank the Maker,” Cassandra sighed.

He wasn’t sure if it was Cullen or Cassandra who caught him.

\--

He woke briefly while Dorian and Solas argued over who could better heal him.

Falon had only recently met Dorian, but he liked him. He was easy to talk to, good to be around when everything was falling apart. He remembered panicking at Redcliffe when he realized all of his friends were dying, only for Dorian to clap a hand on his back and say, “Right. And that’s why we’re going to work under the assumption that we can get back.”

It was easier to keep calm with Dorian around. He reminded him, in quite a few ways, of his dad. Always calm, always joking, and probably clever enough to shame Fen’Harel.

Solas looked on edge, his brow furrowed, his cheeks red. Falon moved to sit up only for both men to turn and urge him to lay back down.

“What’s wrong?” Falon rasped.

He looked down. His ribs were black with bruises, and he was covered in blood, brown, dried blood against his brown skin.

Solas pressed a hand against his forehead.

Falon was struck by another wave of exhaustion. He stayed asleep this time.

-

When Solas pulled Falon aside to tell him the artifact was elven, Falon could not stop pacing. He had walked all that way and he still couldn’t sit still. He switched to adjusting his toolbelt instead of pacing so as not to distract Solas.

Solas seemed rather annoyed when Falon asked, “So how do you know all this? Let me guess. The Fade?”

“I’ve researched such artifacts, yes.”

“I don’t see how there’s anything I can do about that now,” Falon muttered. He didn’t really care about the orb right now. Cassandra and Cullen were the only ones so far who had directly told Falon that they were glad he didn’t die. No one else had asked him if he was alright, but maybe that’s because they were too busy shouting at each other to notice. He cocked his head at Solas and said, “How about we worry about getting out of the wilderness before another blizzard whisks the rest of us down the mountain?”

Solas laughed sharply. “I might have an answer to that.”

-

After arriving at Skyhold, Vivienne was one of the few people who actually asked if Falon was alright. She caught him exploring the fortress and pulled him aside, whipped out a hankerchief and started wiping the dirt from his face. “Maker, you’re a mess!” she exclaimed. “Are you alright, my dear, are you hurt? You look dreadful.”

“I’m fine, mom,” he said.

He hadn’t meant to call her mom and he was sure his ears must have flattened against his head and given him away the way Vivienne’s lips pressed together, like she was holding in a laugh. She didn’t say anything, thankfully.

“That’s good,” Vivienne said. “Maintain your composure and the troops will follow your lead.”

Falon tried not to give away how sick that thought made him feel. Cassandra had assured him the title was mostly a formality, that he would be free to seek as much counsel as he needed from the others and Josephine, Cullen, and Leliana would still handle the details of the organization. His role was to be the same. Walk all over Ferelden and Orlais, find rifts, close rifts, rinse and repeat.

“Let’s keep up appearances, darling,” Vivienne said. “You handled this situation competently, saving as many lives as you did. But the enemy struck a serious blow against the Inquisition. We must recognize that.”

Falon was quiet for a long time. He wondered if she could tell how nauseating that thought was, wondered if she could see his skin paling. She was the only person so far who had asked him if he was alright, maybe the only person who at least pretended to care, and now she was talking about looking tough for the men. Falon frowned. “We’ve got more pressing concerns than how I look right now.”

He was surprised when she smiled at him. “Good. Stay on your guard.”

Humans were _weird._

-

Falon convinced himself he was being stupid. Dorian was more concerned about the implications of an old Tevinter Magister running around, and reminded him that nobody would thank him for what he would do. Falon had laughed and said, “I’m an elf, I know that.”

Sera was more concerned about whether or not the Maker was a real thing, at least Falon was pretty sure that’s what she was concerned about. He encouraged her to keep doubting. Elfy or not, he was just glad there was someone running around who wasn’t so sure about this whole Herald business. _Someone_ needed to be in it to stop the power-mad darkspawn.

Blackwall was similarly concerned about whether or not Falon was the Herald. “Of course not,” he’d said. “This is some kind of magic, that’s all.”

Blackwall didn’t seem to like that answer. He didn't seem to like much of what Falon said or did.

Solas got into some kind of argument with Vivienne over whether or not Cole should stay, and Falon’s first instinct that if Cole was a demon, he was the _nicest_ demon Falon had yet to meet. Every other demon Falon had seen attacked on sight.

Cullen was more concerned about preventing another failure, which made Falon feel safer at least, and Lelianna was much the same.

Josephine was the only one who asked him if there was anything he needed and he hesitated for a long time before he said, “Can we send word to Keeper Deshanna and tell her I’m alright?”

Josephine nodded. “Absolutely. Is there anything you’d like to say?”

Falon thought for a little while and said, “Can we invite them to Skyhold? I’d feel safer if they were here with me.”

Josephine hesitated. And then she nodded, scribbled something down, and agreed, “I’ll include that in the message. Is there anything else?”

“I thought I was going to get to return to them after we sealed the Breach,” he said. “When I was…on my own…after Haven…I wasn’t sure I’d ever see them again.”

Josephine nodded, and quietly said, “What you did was very brave. I know you had planned to return to your clan after the Breach was sealed. We owe you our lives.”

Falon didn’t know how to respond to that. So he nodded quietly, excused himself, and went to rest.

-

They had declined the offer.

Falon remembered leaning over the balcony, holding the refusal in his hand. His clan didn’t want to come, they didn’t want to distract him. He would return when his duties were complete, if he wanted to.

He’d kept the note in his desk, wondered all the time why they didn’t just accept. Why they stayed so far away when the offer was there. They could have been safe, at least. Safer than they were on their own. And more than that, he would have been there to keep them safe.

He thought about jumping off, once or twice.

He could join them. It would be easy to just lean over and let go. If the beyond existed, he’d be there in minutes.

He had that thought over and over. Over breakfast, over tea, over his paperwork and over his alchemy notes. If he died he would rejoin his clan, and it would all be over, but then when it came time to fight he couldn’t force himself to let one of the Templars cut him down; he always ducked into them and stuffed one of his knives through their throats instead.

Falon knew in the pit of his stomach that he would never really do it. Surviving was easier.


End file.
